Wrong
by shan21
Summary: Picks up the morning after the Season 4 finale: Dexter knows he has to leave his family to protect them. Deb refuses to accept this. Dexter tries to convince her.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Wrong

**Author**: shan21

**Rating**/**warnings**: PG-13, for Deb's filthy mouth, spoilers through season 4

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Dexter. It might give me nightmares if I did.

**Summary**: Picks up the morning after the Season 4 finale: Dexter knows he has to leave his family to protect them. Deb refuses to accept this. Dexter tries to convince her.

**A/N**: This is my first Dexter fic. I just watched all four seasons in approximately a week and had to write something!

She's doing dishes when I walk into the kitchen. Deb. Doing dishes. At seven o'clock in the morning. If I believed in hell, maybe I'd make some crack about it freezing over.

The floor creaks beneath my feet and she looks up from the frying pan. She meets my eyes. I don't know what she thinks she sees in them, but I see devastation in hers for a split second before the mask comes up. Usually it's me wearing the mask, but today she knows it's her job to take care of her big brother; the widower.

She attempts a solemn smile.

"Hey. How're you feeling?" she asks.

I stare blankly at the artifice of normalcy she's managed to engineer: sunlight pouring in through the windows, meat sizzling on the stove, coffee percolating. Everything going on as normal.

It seems so utterly out of place on this day that I can't find the motivation to react as I know Harry would want me to. I can't spit out the required, 'Fine,' that the question demands.

So, I just stare.

Her mask falters. She turns back to the frying pan, flipping whatever's inside.

"Stupid question. I know," she admits with a sigh.

Again, I don't reply. I slip onto the barstool by the stove and turn my blank stare toward the sink for no better reason than that it's in my direct line of sight. A minute or two passes this way. I hear the sizzling of the pan crescendo then diminish. The bustle of the kitchen fades into the background. My vision starts to blur the tiniest bit. I'm able to appreciate the nothingness of the moment.

"Steak and eggs. Breakfast of champions."

It's not her voice that snaps me out of my daze so much as the clank of the plate against the counter.

Harry taught me that this gesture requires at least an errant 'thank you,' but I ignore formalities once again. Deb pretends not to notice, and focuses on serving her own breakfast. I hear her slide into the seat next to me, and wait for her to say something. Instead a second later I hear only the faint screeching of her knife and fork against her plate.

I know she's trying not to push me. She understands the difficulty that I have opening up. Well, no, actually. She doesn't understand it, but she's at least aware of it, and I appreciate her thoughtfulness.

I cut into my steak. One long slice.

A watery stream of red sluices out of the meaty crevice and pools in the center of the plate. Clearly Deb didn't let the steaks rest. If she did, they wouldn't be emitting so much liquid. I cut into the steak again, and this time the flow of red juices spreads across the plate, creeping in sinister rivulets until it contaminates the eggs.

This isn't blood; any good scientist knows that. Butchers hang their meat upside down and drain all of the blood from their animals. Just like Brian did. No, this is water containing proteins like myglobin, which, when mixed with oxygen, turns a deep, blood red.

I know this. Logically, my brain has no reason to see protein-infused water and think, 'blood,' but for reasons beyond my control, I'm suddenly back in that bathroom with Rita's lifeless body and my son's desperate cries.

So much blood.

Born in blood. Both of us.

I failed him.

I failed her.

Harry was right.

I close my eyes for a moment. I realize that Deb must be watching me, because suddenly her hand is resting on my back.

"I'm going to have to sell my house," I say.

My voice cracks, but not with emotion. These are the first words I've spoken aloud this morning. It's simply from lack of use that my vocal cords betray me.

"Of course. Of course you are," Deb says softly.

My eyes are still on the bloody plate.

"I can't go back in there," I say.

I sound like I feel.

Hollow.

"I'll take care of it," Deb says, louder now. "All of it. I have a friend who's a realtor. Well, actually it's a friend of a friend who really screwed me over a few years back, but…"

She continues talking, but I don't hear a word of it. That house never really felt like home anyways.

"I want to move back in here," I hear myself say, interrupting her.

It's not until the words are out that I realize how right they feel. I turn to Deb and see her frowning at me.

"Here? Your old apartment?" she asks unnecessarily.

"You don't have to leave. I'll take the couch every other night. It'll be like old times," I assure her.

I even go so far as to give her the hint of a smile. Because that's what normal people do, right? They smile when they reminisce over shared memories. Like the memory of the time when my sister nearly killed by a serial killer and became so shattered that she couldn't bare to live alone. Sure.

But I don't see pain in Deb's eyes, only confusion.

"Where will the kids sleep? Dex, this is a one-bedroom. There wasn't even room for you and me to live here comfortably, let alone you, me, and three kids."

The kids.

Of course. Deb doesn't know yet. _I'm_ what's wrong. I can't change the fact that I'm a monster. It already cost Rita her life. I won't hurt Astor and Cody too.

"No," I hear her say as the realization dawns on her.

Deb's voice breaks through my inner monologue, but I ignore her. So she tries again.

"No way. No fuckin' way! You're all these kids have!" she insists, laying down her fork with an angry clatter.

She didn't even bother to say 'fudge' for the sake of Harrison, asleep in the next room. This could be difficult.

"Astor and Cody have grandparents," I point out sensibly.

Her face is twisted in disbelief. Disappointment.

"You're their father," she perseveres.

No. I'm a monster.

"No, I'm not," I reply matter-of-factly.

I turn back to my plate, but Deb grabs my arm and I look at her again.

"You're the only father they have. The only _parent_ they have," she persists.

"I'm not their parent. We have no real connection," I say, hoping that she'll just drop it for now, chalk it up to shock.

No such luck. The chair scrapes against the kitchen floor and the next thing I know she's standing over me.

"_Fuck_ you! No real connection except their _mother_! _We're _not blood related, and you didn't abandon _me_ when _I_ needed you."

She's gearing up for another one of her hysterical tirades. What she doesn't realize is that she could scream at me until she's blue in the face. My decision is already made. I will not hurt these children.

"Deb—" I try.

"No! Just, fucking, NO, Dexter. You are not abandoning your kids! Look, I know you've been through a lot. So have I. I watched Lundy die in front of my eyes, but that's sure as hell not going to keep me from being here for you now."

Her eyes are wide and wild. I know this look. This is fear. I've seen it hundreds of times. What does Deb have to be afraid of? I frown.

"Dex, these kids need you. I know it must be scary to think of raising three kids alone, but I'm here. I'll help! I'll do whatever you need. Don't be afraid. You're a great father."

No. I'm not.

"A great father wouldn't have gotten their mother killed," I hiss, allowing the first trace of true emotion to pass through my lips today.

I feel Deb's eyes on me without even looking at her.

"You can't blame yourself for that. It doesn't do anyone any good, and it's not true," she tries to reason with me.

I close my eyes and sigh. She doesn't understand and I can't possibly explain it to her.

"Deb, can we talk about this later, please?" I beg, pinching the bridge of my nose to relieve the pressure building up in my head.

Deb is about to reply when a ragged wail rings out from the bedroom. We both freeze. I feel something jump in my chest. I don't know what it is, some nameless, unfamiliar emotion.

"I'll get him," she says quietly.

I breathe a sigh of relief when she exits the kitchen. This is not how I was hoping to begin my morning. I already know what I need to do. I don't need Deb throwing out impossible scenarios.

The way I see it, there are two choices before me.

Choice Number One: Cut and run. Not literally run. Run from my responsibilities as a parent. Stay in Miami, but leave these kids before they can crystallize a firm memory of me and live the way that Harry always said I should: alone. Let my dark passenger have the room he needs to hunt and kill without trying to be a husband and father as well.

Choice Number Two: Confess and go to jail. Leave the kids and go to the police station. Keep my dark passenger locked up in a prison cell with me until my number comes up. Harry always said not to get caught, but I have innocent blood on my hands now. It might be time to cash in my chips. I'll get a choice (all of Florida's death row inmates do) between lethal injection and electrocution. I'll choose lethal injection.

In either case the kids are free to live with normal human beings, giving them an actual shot at a normal human life. There might even be a chance for Harrison to escape unscathed. He's so much younger than I was when I witnessed my mother's death. A one-year-old can't possibly remember that. I hope.

And just as my thoughts turn to my son, there he is. Deb gently clutches him to her chest as she reenters the kitchen. Without a word to me she goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle. She pops the formula into the microwave and I pause to wonder when she had time to run to the store for baby supplies. Must be something she grabbed last night from my house. The crime scene.

"Can you hold him?" she asks when the microwave dings.

When I fail to respond, she sighs and holds him out in front of me. I take him on instinct, but looking into his eyes scares me. I don't want to see that hollow look. I hold him close to my chest so that his chin rests on my shoulder.

Deb, hands free, removes the bottle and tests the formula's temperature. I wonder, too, how she knows to do this. Babysitting, probably.

"Okay," she says.

Okay what? Okay, we'll talk about this later? Okay, abandon your kids? Okay, you're not a great father.

But then she's lifting Harrison back out of my arms and I realize it's, 'Okay, I'm ready for the baby now.'

She moves to the couch and I sit awkwardly at the breakfast bar for another moment before excusing myself.

"Shower," I mumble.

Deb doesn't even look up from Harrison when she nods.

I go through the motions of getting ready. I try to keep Deb's words out of my head, but they're annoyingly persistent, much like Deb herself can be.

Will Astor and Cody hate me for abandoning them? Will they remember me? I know they probably will. Of course they will. Cody will remember me better than his real father. I was around longer.

I push those thoughts away as I rinse the shampoo from my hair. There's nothing but Deb's products in the shower, so I exit smelling like lilac.

As I hastily tug a shirt over my head, Deb's words assault me again.

_The only father they have. _

No, that doesn't matter. They're better off without me. I can't deny my dark passenger. If I stay, those children will either end up unceremoniously torn from their stepfather as he's dragged away on murder charges or they'll end up dead themselves. Like Rita.

When I reenter the living room, Deb is still on the couch, but Harrison is nowhere to be seen.

"He's still exhausted," she explains. "He fell asleep when I was trying to burp him. I put him back to bed."

I nod absently and putter my way over to the coffee maker. It's not until I'm topping off my cup that she speaks again.

"How can you do this? Don't you care about them at all?" she asks.

Such a simple question. I know what the answer has to be.

I should say no. I need to tell her that they aren't mine and I don't want them. I need to tell her I don't care for them, but the very thought of those words leaving my lips causes a strange twisting sensation in my gut.

_Just say it, Dexter_. Tell her that you don't love them. Horrify her. Convince her that you can't be a good father so she'll leave you the fuck alone already. I clench my hand around the mug.

"Of course I care for them! That's why I'm leaving them!" I shout.

We both seem shocked by my words. Our eyes meet in mutual bewilderment. For a moment all I can hear if my own deep, shaky breaths.

In and out.

In and out.

In and—

"What the _fuck_ does that mean?"

I'm still frozen, so she fills the silence for me.

"What kind of crazy shit is that? Huh? You think these kids will be better off without a father? Orphaned because you were too chicken shit to stick around?"

The twisting feeling grows white hot and begins to rise. I can feel it tickling the insides of my esophagus. It's another new sensation, and one that I don't like. I can't take the inquisition. She doesn't have any of the facts.

"You don't get it, Deb. Back the fuck off," I say, my voice low and dangerous.

I should know by now that my low and dangerous voice never works on Deb.

"You're right! I _don't_ get it! Who are you? Who the _fuck_ are you?" she shouts, rising suddenly from the couch.

When I fail to respond yet again she takes five swift steps until she's in the kitchen with me, shaking with rage.

"God, Dex! It's like I don't even know you. For almost five years you've been the dutiful doting father and now, suddenly, it's like… it's like all that was fake. Like the brother I've known isn't just gone, but that he was never there at all."

Bingo. She's figured me out. The role of dutiful doting Dexter is just a part I played to fit in.

So why does it sting to hear her say it like that?

The hot, twisting feeling is overpowering all of my senses now. I can't think. My mind is jumping from memory to memory and I am powerless to control it.

Cody snuggling under the covers as I read him Green Eggs and Ham for the third time that night.

Astor hugging me tightly, trying to hold in tears after I removed her splinter.

Harrison screaming in a pool of blood.

Rita's lifeless eyes.

"God DAMN IT, Deb, just leave it alone!" I bellow, slamming down my mug with such force the coffee rushes over the edge and surges across the countertop.

"No!" she shouts back immediately.

I snap.

I hear bang and realize belatedly that I'm the source. The coffee mug lies in shards at base of the refrigerator. I threw it there, inches from Deb's feet.

I look at her face and see that I've startled her.

Good.

But she's not afraid. Not really. Startling someone isn't the same as truly frightening them. I should know. I've done more than my fair share of both in my life. I need to scare her. Let her see what I really am. Just a glimpse so she'll understand.

"You want to know why I can't help these kids?" I ask, my voice low once more.

She doesn't respond, but I see the curiosity in her eyes.

"My brother had a… darkness inside of him," I begin.

I'm almost whispering now. Deb shakes her head, already preparing to deny whatever I'm about to say next, but I hold up a warning finger, and she uncharacteristically falls silent.

"I talked to him, you know. When you were tied down on that table in his shed. He described the isolation that he felt. The sense of otherness. And a hunger that could never be satisfied," I continue.

Deb can't help herself.

"Yeah, no _shit_! He was a fucking psychopath. But it's not like it's genetic, Dex. It doesn't mean you're a freak too. You didn't even know he was your brother until yesterday, so—"

"Wrong," I interrupt.

I enjoy her mid-sentence halt. I've caught her off guard again. I'm getting closer to my goal.

"I knew he was my brother," I reveal.

She continues to stare at me, but the hint of a frown shadows her features.

"What?" she asks.

I think back to the exact moment. Stepping into the front yard. Flashes of a game of hide and seek. Then, without warning, my brother appears, back in my consciousness for the first time in three decades.

"I found out that day. When I arrived at the house. It all came rushing back."

Deb swallows hard. She looks as if she may be sick.

"No," she says, more to herself than to me.

"I used to call him Biney," I recall, looking somewhere past her.

"No," I hear her say, firmer this time.

"He said I had trouble with my 'R's," I relate.

I'm smiling now. Not a sinister smile; just a gentle smile of nostalgia.

She's been quiet for too long. I glance at her and see tears pooling in her eyes, but I don't know quite why. Is this the same sort of sadness she felt when I discovered my birth father, or something different?

"Why didn't you tell me," she demands, her voice shaking with emotion.

I can't give her the real answer, now can I? That would give the game away.

"Because it didn't matter. At that moment, it didn't matter. Brian gave me a choice between you and him, and I chose you," I say matter-of-factly.

She blinks the tears away and the sadness is replaced by quiet fury.

"When I told you about him yesterday you put on quite the performance. You're a pretty convincing actor," she spits out.

She means it to be cutting, but I'm not offended. She's merely stating a fact.

"I know," I reply simply.

She frowns again.

"Well could you at least stop calling him fucking _Brian_?" she snaps.

"It was his name," I point out.

Her lips curl up in disgust. She shakes her head.

"It makes it sound like he's an old friend. Like he's—"

"My brother?" I helpfully supply.

The tears are back, and her anger is increasing.

"You never even knew him. You knew _Rudy_. Brian Moser died before you knew the real him for more than a couple hours," she snarls.

"I understood him better than anybody ever could," I reply evenly.

She winces as though I physically struck her.

"That can't be true," she whispers.

"Wrong again," I correct her.

Her expression is anguished. I know she wants to scream, hurl herself at me, start sobbing. But she just stares, letting the pain leak slowly from her eyes.

This is difficult for me. I don't enjoy hurting Deb. My murderous impulses tend to get stronger when I witness someone making her feel like I'm making her feel right now. But it has to be done. She needs to understand in some way why I'm doing what I'm doing for Rita's kids.

"You were right about one thing though," I continue.

I pause to make sure that I have her full attention. She turns her watery eyes towards me, mouth set in a thin line of anger.

"Brian's darkness wasn't a result of genetics. It was purely societal," I explain.

Deb's lip trembles, and then the force of her anger comes spilling out.

"Bull_shit._ Just because your brother was a fucking evil lunatic doesn't mean you were born the same way. That's all I meant by it not being genetic. But make no mistake, I have no doubt that _he_ came into this world a monster."

I sigh.

"Wrong for a third time. Your intuitive leaps are uncharacteristically failing you today, Deb," I say, giving her a disappointed shake of my head.

Deb's face screws up in a show of confusion and fury.

"Brian wasn't born monstrous; he became a monster after a traumatic childhood experience," I calmly continue.

Her laugh takes me by surprise. It's the bitter laugh of a skeptic.

"Did he tell you that while I was tied up? Some convenient excuse for his trying to _kill_ _me_?" she demands.

I give her a sad smile.

"He didn't make it up."

"How do you know?" she asks, a dubious smirk still gracing her face.

I take one deep breath and let it out as a slow sigh.

"Because, unfortunately for both of us, it was a shared experience."

All traces of laughter leave her face.

"What are you talking about?"

"The crime scene that dad found me at. Brian was there too," I reveal.

She jumps to correct me.

"No. Dad said—"

"I know what Dad said. Dad lied. It doesn't matter now."

"What do you mean it doesn't matter? You're saying dad lied about knowing you had a brother!" she shouts.

"What's done is done. And what happened to Brian and me doesn't matter either. What matters is the result. It was a trauma. It left an emptiness in us, and that feeling only grows and grows, screaming inside of us, urging us to do… very bad things."

An eerie silence claims the room. I wonder what Debra is thinking. Is she remembering those moments in our childhood when I hadn't yet learned how to hide my darker nature?

The time she saw me with blood on my hands after I killed an animal in the woods and made some hasty excuse about falling off my bike. Or when dad insisted so strongly that she not come hunting with us because I _needed_ these trips. Or the time when I got into a fight in school and she had to physically pull me off a boy. I whirled on her, for a split second not recognizing her as my sister, and something in my expression scared her.

Deb stares at me with new eyes. There is a wince of pain in her expression, a wariness that I've never seen her direct at me before. I don't like Deb looking at me this way. She's the only person left on this earth who loves me. Seeing that slip away physically hurts.

I have to remind myself why I'm doing this. She needs to leave me alone. She needs to accept that I can't be a part of my children's lives anymore.

"But _you_ didn't become a serial killer. You became someone who helps _catch_ bad guys," she says, firmly distinguishing me from her would-be killer.

My first reaction is to smile at her choice of words, but I manage to hold it back. She sounds so hopeful. She's trying to convince herself, to protect herself.

"I _do_ catch bad guys," I reply enigmatically. "But the darkness is still there."

She lets out a huff of air and spins away from me for a moment. When she turns back, she looks irritated instead of afraid.

"So… what? You're telling me you're just one dinnertime telemarketing call away from going Dahmer on Miami?" she asks mockingly.

I shake my head.

"No. Unlike Brian, I had Harry. He taught me how to control my urges."

"What does dad have to do with anything?" she retorts, but I can hear the uncertainty in her voice.

"He found me at that crime scene, Deb. He knew how that could mess a kid up. And so he watched me. Carefully. He saw the signs sooner than anyone else."

"What signs?" she asks, but I can tell she already knows.

Her mind must be flashing back to my odd little childhood quirks: the social awkwardness, the emotional detachment, the edgy energy that always seemed threatening to spill over during my adolescence.

"Violent urges," I say simply. "Harry recognized them and helped me deal with them."

"How?" she asks warily.

I know she's remembering the endless hours I spent with Harry alone while she pined away at home, desperate for her father's attention. She's thinking about hunting trips.

She doesn't know the half of it.

"Lots of ways," I say vaguely.

She glares at me briefly, but apparently thinks better of asking me for details. She wants to believe it was all just hunting trips. I can tell. She closes her eyes, as if the darkness will help her make sense of all of this new information. I feel compelled to speak again, ease some of her pain.

"I'm sorry that I monopolized a lot of his time growing up, but he understood the danger of my condition. Without him, I could've ended up like Brian."

She's crying now; silent tears stream down her face. She opens her eyes and pins me with the full weight of her betrayal.

"What the fuck, Dex? Why are you telling me this?" she bites out, unable to muster the rage to yell.

Deb has a way of making me feel… anything. And everything. I feel more human around her than anybody in this world. It's wonderful and it's horrible. Right now, it's horrible. It's rare that I feel overcome with any emotion. I don't like it. It feels unsafe.

"You need to understand. I'm doing this for the kids. I'm not afraid for myself; I'm afraid for them," I explain gently.

She doesn't want to hear me; doesn't want to believe anything I've told her today. She turns away from me and I know I can't let her erase it now.

"There is still a monster inside of me, Deb. I can't deny it. And I can't be a father and a monster at the same time. It doesn't work that way."

The symmetry of my speech to my brother's doesn't hit me until I close my mouth. _'You can't be a killer and a hero. It doesn't work that way!'_ He was right, of course. And I've chosen. I can't _not_ be a killer. I've tried. No Twelve Step program for homicidal urges. Deb's swearing refocuses my attention.

"Bullshit. You had the wife, the kids, the house in the 'burbs. The fucking _minivan_. You were able to make 'normal' work in a way I consistently fuck up!" she shouts.

I know why this is hard for her. I'm the only person she has left, and here I am, revealing myself to be someone other than the brother she knows and loves. But she needn't worry too much. I won't reveal the true monster in me, not completely. Even I'm not that cruel.

"It's like you said – I'm a very good actor," I remind her.

She reaches out and grabs my arm, holds onto me as if it somehow makes the Dexter she remembers real.

"You don't have a dark side, Dex. You're the best person I know," she says, pleading.

I place my own hand tenderly over hers.

"Don't blame yourself for not noticing. I've hidden it so well that over the years I was able to convince even myself that it wasn't there. But I know what I am Deb. I'm a monster."

She pulls her hand away violently.

"Stop saying that!" she screams.

I want to take away her pain, but I know I can't.

"You need to understand," I repeat.

She whirls on me, throwing her hands up in the air in desperation.

"Why? So that the only good thing left in my life can disappear? Even the memory of dad has been ruined for me. What do I have left without you?"

"You still have me," I say.

She lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"No, I have this perverted version of you, just like with dad! And it doesn't make any sense. No one's that good of an actor. You _care_ about people. You loved Rita. You love those kids. I know it. Brian Moser could never love anyone."

'_He loved me,' _I think. _'Unconditionally.'_

"I care about the kids in a way that Brian never could. I'm not denying that. And you, Deb. I care the most for you. That's not a lie. It never was. But love?"

I pause.

Love.

Can I love others? Has being a family man made me more human, or am I just fooling myself to even ask that question? Seeing my son screaming in a pool of his mother's blood broke something inside of me, but what did it break? Surely not my heart. I don't have one. Not a real, human heart.

"I don't think I'm capable of love," I conclude.

No, it's not something I've ever felt. The only moment I ever felt like pure, unconditional love was possible was the familial love of a brother. He accepted me, all of me.

Deb loves me; I know it. But she could never love the real me—the complete me. No human being, no one without their own dark passenger, could possibly love me if they knew the real me. Rita loved the part of me that she knew, and look what it got her.

"Can you honestly look at me right now and tell me that you don't love Harrison; that you don't love _me_."

Her voice is ragged with raw agony. She needs me to say yes; I can sense it. But if I give her that, if I lie to her now, then she'll never accept that I'm telling the truth about my dark passenger. She needs to know so that I can protect my children. From me.

"I'm not capable of love," I repeat.

I can't characterize her reaction. A myriad of emotions cross her face and they're so strong I've never encountered them before. I have no name to give them. The closest I can manage is horror and absolute despair.

She looks at me like I just murdered her brother.

I want to take it all back—to tell her anything that will make her look at me like she used to; like her perfect older sibling.

"This is too much for me. I can't handle this," she sobs.

I reach out to touch her shoulder, but she jerks away. A second later she's running, literally running away from me. The door slams shut before I can say a word to stop her.

TBC...

A/N: Hey, you wanna hear something wild? I heard that leaving reviews is as effective as taking a daily multivitamin in reducing the risk of illness! Where did I hear that? Certainly not my own deluded thoughts. I'm sure I read it in a medical journal... but anyways, what's the harm in trying, right? Clicky, clicky!


	2. Chapter 2

Morning passes and Deb doesn't return. I'm left alone with my thoughts. Normally I find peace in solitude, but not today. It only gives me ample time to replay the events of the last twenty-four hours again and again in my mind.

Killing Trinity; finding Rita; rushing Harrison away from that room; my house swarmed with EMTs and police; Deb whispering words of comfort in my ears, interrupted by the occasional 'We'll get this fucking cocksucker, Dex. I swear'; a restless night of sleep next to my traumatized son; the fight with Deb this morning.

Never has my life felt so utterly and completely unbound. The careful cocoon of ordinariness I've wrapped myself in over the years has roughly unraveled overnight, leaving me raw and exposed and…

Unsure.

I'm never unsure. I always have a plan, and if I don't, I adapt quickly and efficiently. I don't know what my next step is anymore. Deb left before I could get any sort of resolution from her. Is she willing to accept that my dark passenger prohibits me from carrying on as Daddy Dexter, the selfish role that cost Rita her life and the kids their mother? If not, how much more will it take to convince her without breaking her entirely?

My endless musings are interrupted at one point when Harrison starts to babble in the next room. I reluctantly vacate the kitchen stool to check on him. He stares up at me without a hint of accusation. I approach the bed and lean over him tentatively, dreading the face-to-face contact. I hold my breath. Our eyes meet.

Miraculously, I see no pain. No emptiness.

Is it possible that my son has escaped my treacherous impact unharmed?

I find myself lying down beside him, delicately tracing his diminutive fingers with my own. He curls his tiny digits around my index finger and I can't help but indulge myself in the idea that he's clinging to his father because he needs me. His own flesh and blood. He's a part of me just as much as he's a part of her.

What kind of a man abandons his children? My biological father didn't fight for my brother and I when our mother died. Maybe he looked at me and saw a fucked up kid and thought to himself, 'Well, I'll only fuck him up worse. He's better off with anyone else.' Isn't that essentially what I'm saying about my own children?

But then again, my real father was probably right. Harry was the only person compassionate enough to raise a child like me.

I shake my head. My situation is incomparable. My biological father was nothing like me. My father wasn't a monster, an ex-con, sure, and an addict, but not a serial killer. But my son… Is he going to be like me? It's too soon to tell. I didn't start showing signs for years.

No, I need to consider my current situation apart from my own childhood experiences. Didn't I already make this decision? I can't balance my double life anymore. I never should have agreed to be a father in the first place. My instincts were right. Harry was right. Someone like me should never be a father.

I'm unused to being plagued by such fretful indecision. The unwelcome ruminations are endless, relentless, haunting.

The ring of my cell phone just before lunch comes as a welcome relief.

"Morgan," I greet the caller.

"Hey, Morgan. It's Batista."

"Oh, hey Angel."

I really hope he isn't making a sympathy call. I'm really not looking forward to fielding those in the coming days.

"Listen, I hate to do this to you, but we've been going over the crime scene and we need some more information. Do you think you could pop into the station today?"

I imagine walking out of the elevator and into a sea of pitying stares and trite condolences. Having to nod and smile and put on the brave little soldier performance with my baby swaddled against me. I shudder.

"Angel, I really don't think… I think I've already told you everything," I say, a little desperately.

I hear Batista sigh.

"I know. It's cruel of me to even ask, but… it's standard procedure."

He pauses. Is he waiting for me to suck it up and agree? No, wait, he's speaking again.

"Look, why don't I pop over on my lunch break? I can ask you a few quick questions and then let you be. I'll bring pulled pork."

My hours-old breakfast sits on the counter, cold and uneaten. I can feel my stomach jump at the mention of pork.

"Yeah, okay," I acquiesce.

"You at Deb's? Your old place?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be there in an hour."

Despite doing some of the dishes, Deb still managed to leave a mess in the kitchen, so I spend the next hour cleaning and then preparing another bottle of formula for Harrison. When Batista knocks on the door, I'm still feeding my son.

Batista physically flinches when he notices Harrison in my arms. It's as if the reminder of what Rita left behind is too much for him to bear. I know the feeling.

"Hey, socio," he recovers.

He holds up a bag of takeout. I smile gratefully.

"Great. You can just put it on the breakfast bar. Harrison's almost done eating. I'm just going to get a, uh, burping rag," I mutter, already puttering back into the kitchen.

I pull a kitchen towel from a drawer and give it a sniff. It's clean. Not exactly a spit up rag, but knowing Deb's cooking, it's probably seen worse.

I settle in and give Batista an appreciative nod as he hands me my sandwich. I'm an expert at eating pulled pork sandwiches one-handed, it being the perfect driving food, so holding my son as I eat is no problem. Batista, however, can't seem to stop staring at him. Frankly, it's starting to creep me out.

"So, you had questions?" I say around a mouthful of pork.

Batista appears to be jolted out of whatever internal musings he may have been indulging.

"Right," he says, pulling a notepad and pen from his pocket.

"Do you remember if your front door unlocked when you entered your house?"

I think back to last night. Walking up the front steps. I entered the house so hopeful, so ready to embark on a perfect vacation with my wife and baby. A huge weight had just been lifted from me and over the side of my boat. I couldn't wait to meet Rita in that hotel.

"Hey, Dexter?"

Angel's voice snaps me out of my painful reverie.

"It was definitely locked," I assure him.

"Okay."

He scribbles this down before continuing.

"We only saw one set of footprints in the bathroom – yours – but we were thinking that your tracks might have disturbed some older ones. Did you notice any trace that could have been left behind by the killer?"

I hear my son's ragged sobs. Rita's open, lifeless eyes. All that blood. Pools of it. Overflowing. Filling the room.

"No," I manage to bite out.

I take a deep breath and realize that I've unconsciously pulled Harrison tighter to my body. Angel writes something else down. I frown, deducing the reason for this line of questioning.

"It wasn't suicide," I say firmly.

Angel shakes his head.

"We don't think it was. It's just… this killer was clean. So clean I wanted to pin it on the Trinity Killer, but it doesn't fit his M.O."

I swallow hard.

"Oh?"

"His bathtub victims are younger. He picks a mother for the fall, but she normally has only two kid, not three."

Rita didn't fit Arthur's criteria for his ritual. She should have been safe. Would have been safe if not for me.

"Right," I say.

Angel stands and comes around to my side of the bar. He gives me a pat on the back.

"Don't worry, Dex. We'll find this pendejo."

No you won't.

"I know you will."

At that moment my cell rings again. It's the funeral home. I tell Angel and walk over to the living room to take the call. Rita's body will be ready for release from the morgue in two days. They need me to come in and make the arrangements as soon as possible. There's a form to sign and dozens of decisions to be made. The man on the phone runs down a list of considerations: How should the body be prepared? Will there be an open casket? Are the remains to be cremated or preserved? Is there a cemetery I would like her to be buried in? What was her religion? Except for the last question, I'm clueless. I tell him I'll think about it and get back to him.

I hang up feeling dazed. It was like this after Harry died too. I was the one to make most of the arrangements since Deb was too young. I never knew there were so many considerations in dealing with an empty vessel of flesh. I like my method better.

"Dexter, you shouldn't have to deal with this. You need to give them Deb's contact info. She can take care of a lot of this stuff. She would want to," Angel says after I hang up.

Deb would probably want me to stay far away right now.

"Deb's dealing with a lot at the moment too," I say evasively.

Angel gives me a knowing smile.

"Trust me, socio. She would want to do this for you."

I'm not so sure. I just told her that her brother is a monster who never loved her. Some people would take that kind of thing personally.

"Did you have any other questions for me?" I ask.

Angel scans his notepad.

"Nothing that can't wait," he concludes.

I nod. Go back to my sandwich. Give Harrison the occasional pat on the back.

"You seem like you're handling this pretty well," he adds.

Oh sure. Life currently unraveling here, but I'm nothing if not cool under pressure. Before I can reply, Angel speaks again.

"I get it though. You gotta stay strong for this little guy."

He goes back to staring at my son with this pained look on his face. As if on cue, Harrison chooses this moment to reintroduce his meal to us. I give him another few pats, then pull him away so I can remove Deb's kitchen towel. Better put it in the hamper; knowing Deb, she'd reuse it to wipe down the counters. If she was prone to wiping down the counters.

When I look up I'm surprised to see tears in Angel's eyes. Bewilderment sets in. This is probably another one of those human reactions that makes perfect sense to normal people. I, on the other hand, have no idea why the sight of my son bringing up his breakfast has induced tears.

"I'm sorry, is this grossing you out?" I attempt.

Angel gives a little laugh, but there's still pain written all over his face.

"No, it's just… I remember when my little girl was that age. I can't imagine raising her alone."

I pause to consider the man sitting before me. Angel cares more about his daughter than anyone I know. Surely if there's anyone who can tell me what fatherhood means, it's him.

"Angel, what do you think is the most important part of being a father?"

Angel gets a faraway look and a small smile slips onto his face.

"Just being available to your kids. Giving all of yourself to them. That's real love."

All of me. Sure. I'll just start toting my children along with me to my kills. Cody can be in charge of bagging, and Astor will be on saran wrap duty. It'll be like take your kids to work day. I grimace but quickly cover it up with a tight smile. Angel gives me another squeeze on the shoulder.

"All right, Dex. I gotta head back to work, but if you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to call, okay?"

I nod and shoot him another grateful smile. When I close the door behind him, I lean against it and let my head fall back with a sigh. Of course children deserve parents who give all of themselves. Harry did it for me. Hell, even Paul was a completely devoted dad. But I've kept my personality evenly split: one half the real me and one half synthetic. My double life was a failure. I got too deep into my cover, and both parts of me suffered, the man and the monster. But the monster always wins.

It was the monster in me that kept me from taking care of Arthur Mitchell before he began his new killing cycle. I was looking for someone to justify my own choice to become a family man, despite Harry's warnings. I wanted to see how he balanced the evil and humanity in himself, only to discover that there was no humanity. My desperate search for validation led to Rita's death.

You see, Deb was wrong when she sobbed in that parking lot where Lundy died. She isn't broken. I am. It's me. I'm what's wrong. I try to fight against my true nature and everyone around me suffers so that I can maintain this selfish facade of humanity.

Why?

To give myself the hope that one day the emotions that I so convincingly fake might become real. Harry told me he hoped it would happen. I know now it was a false hope.

Strangely enough, talking to Angel has helped. It usually does. My indecision is gone. I've been playing at a normal life for years now and the results couldn't be plainer: It doesn't work.

My children will be happy. They'll forget me soon enough. Even Deb will forgive me eventually. I'm all she has left.

Decision confirmed, I feel better. Might as well get another responsibility off my plate. It takes me under an hour to pack up a bag for Harrison, hop into the minivan, and arrive at the funeral home.

The funeral director is friendly and efficient without laying on the pity too thickly, which I appreciate. I do my best to answer his questions about the arrangements, but most often I just ask him what people usually do in this situation and go with his answer.

"Your wife's body is in excellent condition. Restoration shouldn't be a problem for the viewing," he tells me.

The scientist in me wants to ask about the extent of tissue damage due to her exposure to water in the hours after her death, but without warning I'm transported back to that bathroom.

I see her ghostly face, dead eyes staring past me. No sign of the terror and pain that she must have felt as Trinity drained the life from her. She didn't look peaceful either, just… empty.

"Mr. Morgan?"

My eyes snap back to his.

"I'm sorry if I was too frank in my speech. You don't need the details. Suffice it to say that everything will be taken care of. Just sign here, please."

He holds out a stack of papers and indicates the line at the bottom of the page. I sign and can't help but feel disappointed when the weight of responsibility for Rita doesn't magically drift away. Those empty eyes still haunt me, along with my son's screams.

"Now, as for the burial, do you have a family plot?" the director asks.

"No."

"Would you like to start one?" he queries.

It seems like an odd question. He phrases it as though I'm starting a garden. Plant Rita here, Astor and Cody will go next to her, Harrison between them, and me in the far corner for color. It's morbid. But gardening makes me think of Rita and her lemon tree.

"Lemon tree," I say aloud.

"I'm sorry?" the man asks.

He doesn't seem terribly confused by my outburst. I guess he's used to people blurting out nonsensical things in their grief.

"I'd like a cemetery that will let me plant a lemon tree by her grave. She loved her lemon tree."

I feel almost embarrassed making such a request. How pathetic of me to assume that Rita really cares about anything anymore. She's dead and gone. Do I really think that she can appreciate a carefully planned burial? That I can do right by her simply by making her gravesite pretty? But it feels right.

"There are several local cemeteries that allow family to plant at the gravesite. There are also several that already have lemon trees among the graves. Which would you prefer?"

"I want to plant it myself," I reply without hesitation.

The director nods.

"That can be arranged. I'll call and make the arrangements. Consider it taken care of."

"Thank you," I say sincerely.

"I'm happy to help you through this. Please let me know if there's anything else I can do, Mr. Morgan."

He rises from his chair, prompting me to do the same. We shake hands and I leave, toting Harrison in my arms.

Once in the van, I catch myself heading in the direction of my house instead of the apartment. Inexplicable panic sets in and I nearly hit a Ford Taurus in my haste to perform an illegal u-turn.

"Sorry," I murmur to Harrison.

He doesn't seem too put out by it.

Walking into my old apartment feels like coming home. I sag onto the sofa in relief, my baby on my lap. Together we watch the Discovery Channel special on the predators of the Australian outback. Normally it would be easy for me to lose myself in the primal story of hunter and hunted, but not this evening. Deb returns to my thoughts unbidden.

What if she refuses to accept what she knows to be true? She senses a darkness in me, and I'm sure the detective in her spent all day pouring over childhood memories, piecing together the reality of my sinister side. But self-preservation is a powerful thing, and it's entirely possible that she'll deny my sins for the sake of her sanity.

I think back on my two options: Leave the daddy identity behind and let my monster roam free or lock the monster up in a cell with me. I'm positive that these are my only two choices. I've spent all day wrestling with my responsibility to my children, and I know now more than ever that keeping them away from me is the only way to protect them.

Deb is the only obstacle standing in my way. She has a nasty habit of pushing me to fulfill the role of the family man because in her mind she's too damaged to make it work for herself. She thinks I'm her only chance at coming close a normal family. What a tragic misconception.

Deb will make my decision for me. If she accepts what I've told her, then option one it is: freedom. If she refuses to face the truth, it's option two: jail. I always wanted Deb to be the one to bring me in, if it came to that. Maybe tonight will be the night.

My preference, of course, is option one; nobody prefers prison. But I'm ready, if it comes to that. I've made too many mistakes in recent years to say I'm the same neat monster that I started out as. Maybe the world will be a better place with me out of circulation.

It's a nice, neat decision-making schema. Harry would be proud, if not for the inconvenient possibility of breaking rule #1: Don't get caught.

It will hurt Deb, but I can't lead this double life any longer. My shadow self doesn't share well with others. It will only continue to hurt the people closest to me.

After Harrison's dinnertime bottle and burping, I put him to bed and rejoin my Aussie compatriots in their quest for blood. A pack of dingoes spreads out over a flock of sheep, viciously tearing into their hind legs as they make their escape. A quick bite to the jugular and there's nothing left to do but sit back and enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Sometimes I envy the pack mentality of these creatures. No one begrudges them their innate need for blood. They can be completely open with their violent nature. It's accepted. Encouraged. Necessary.

Being open with my dark impulses is a dream that can never be realized. No human being could ever love the real me. There have been those who've claimed to. Brian actually did, but he wasn't human, he was like me. Lila was similarly demented. She wanted so desperately to feel that she clung to me as a kindred spirit. Miguel used me for his own sinister purposes.

No, there's not a person alive who could see my truth and welcome me as a member of the pack. Humans are taught to reject people like me. I've been living among them, but I've always been an imposter. Would sheep welcome a wolf who removed his disguise? What if he promised only to eat the bad sheep?

I'm brought out of my musings by the jiggle of the door handle.

The door swings open and Deb appears from behind it. I quickly turn off the TV. She stands awkwardly at the entrance to her apartment, an unreadable expression on her face.

The door swings shut behind her, but she makes no further movements.

"Hey," I say finally.

"Hey," she replies just as uselessly.

She bites her lip, indicating to me that she's come to some sort of decision, and slowly approaches me. I eye her carefully.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking."

I wait. She comes to a halt in front of the couch but doesn't sit. She towers above me, a judge on the bench.

"When we were growing up, I saw you with blood on your hands more than once," she states.

I frown. Inhale. Exhale.

"You did?"

"I know you killed the neighbor's dog."

"Oh."

I can't think of anything else to say. Her voice sounds faint under the beating of my heart.

"I was glad you did it. It was keeping mom up, and she was sick. I wanted to do it, but..."

I swallow hard. Is this conversation really happening?

"Harry found it. The dog. I think that's when he truly realized that I was different," I say.

She doesn't respond right away. Instead she sits down next to me and starts to pick imaginary lint off her pants. Finally, she speaks, still looking down.

"You were a weird kid, Dex. Dad always told me to be patient with you, said it had something to do with your past. I accepted it."

I examine her face. Right now she's all jagged edges and tense lines.

"And when those moments became fewer and farther between, I just assumed you grew out of it," she continues.

I don't dare speak. I wait for her to go on.

"I _wanted_ to believe it. But there were times…"

I wonder what times she's thinking about, but she doesn't elucidate.

"Dad taught you to do that, right? Hide your darker side?" she asks, still not meeting my eyes.

"Yes," I reply simply.

She exhales. I see her lip tremble very slightly. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment and then suddenly they're on me.

"I hate that you think you're a monster," she blurts out, voice cracking with emotion.

She hates that I _think_ I'm a monster, not that I _am_ one. She doesn't believe it, won't let herself believe it.

"Did Dad tell you that? That's you're evil? That you're not human?" she continues, pain and sorrow escaping through the tremor in her tone.

I stare passively back at her. Of course, I remember the exact moment that Harry first used the word 'monster.' Right after my psychological evaluation. He congratulated me on hiding the monster inside of me. It was the first time I felt that Harry didn't love me, or at least not all of me. I realized then that he didn't just feel wary about my dark side; he hated it.

My non-response appears to be enough. Deb's eyes sparkle with tears.

"I was glad you killed that dog, Dexter. It was the right thing to do. Mom was suffering. That's not evil. That's love," she says, her face taut with distress.

In the moment of the kill, my mind was far from the suffering of my foster mother. I was focused solely on achieving that beautiful, fleeting feeling of peace that comes with depriving a living creature of its right to exist in this world. If only she knew of my other crimes. Would she consider those killings of love too?

"You're a good person. Maybe you can convince yourself that you're a monster, but not me," she adds.

Oh, just give me time. It looks like we're coming to it sooner than I'd hoped.

"I know the real you. You're a caring brother and a great father. You're so good with your kids; you _love_ those kids," she says, pleading with me.

I continue my stoic stare-down, which only prompts Deb to keep trying.

"Dad loved you, Dex. You were his pride and joy. I was the fucking afterthought. And look how things turned out—you're the successful family man and I'm the fuck up. As expected."

I can only accept my sister's wild misreading of the situation for so long. At this last statement, I'm compelled to contradict her.

"Dad never expected me to become a family man. In fact it was against his rules," I argue.

She seems startled by my reply, but quickly recovers, brow furrowed.

"At least Dad cared enough to give you rules to live by! All I ever got was a pat on the back if I managed to pull an A in a class."

I sigh.

"Harry didn't spend more time with me because he liked me better, Deb. He did it because he was afraid of me. Of what I might become."

Deb let's out a frustrated noise.

"Yeah, well, Dad was an idiot. He made a lot of mistakes. You proved him wrong! You _are_ a family man. It's _real_, Dex. You're the one with people who love you and depend on you," she insists.

"And look how well that turned out," I mutter.

She pauses for a moment and I can see her anguish.

"Those kids love you. They need you. _I'm _the one that fucks this shit up and _you're _the one who gets it right."

I shake my head.

"It only looks like I'm getting it right, Deb. I'm the one that's messed up here."

"Tell that to the three adoring children who love you. If I died tomorrow, who would care besides you?" she retorts.

I can't take this anymore. Is she honestly trying to convince me that between the two of us _I'm _the one who deserves a normal life?

"Will you _stop_ with self-pity? So your dad didn't pay enough attention to you. You and a million other women in Miami! _You_ can't have a normal life? _You_ fuck things up? _You're_ broken?"

Deb is taken aback by my outburst, and sputters for a moment before assembling a reply.

"You _have_ a normal life! You have everything, and you're doing your goddamned best to throw it away. And that's not you! Okay, Dex? That's me! _I _destroy the good things in my life."

I purse my lips and try to take a calming breath. My leg bounces with pent up frustration.

"My brain doesn't function like a normal human brain, how about _that_?" I snap.

Deb reels back.

"That's not—"

"_No_. Listen to me," I demand.

Deb's mouth falls closed.

"The temporal lobe is the part of the brain that processes emotions. Mine is underdeveloped. Extremely so. Just like fifty-seven percent of serial killers and psychopaths."

We're getting dangerously close to the truth now. Deb senses it. I know she does. She looks terrified, not of me, but of what I might say next.

"You're not a monster. You process emotions. You're normal," she says, but her voice is weak, unsteady.

"I'm psychologically demented, Deb. It's a scientific fact. I've just been trained to act normal, but I'm not. I fake every human interaction. Every. Single. One."

A tear escapes her eye and rolls slowly down her cheek. She wipes it away angrily before fixing me with a livid glare.

"No one's that good of an actor. Maybe it started out as an act when you were a kid, but the way you act with me, with those kids—that's real," she bites out.

I clench my fists. Her relentless compulsion to convince me that I'm a good, upstanding citizen is infuriating me in a way I've never felt before. I've always tried so hard to convince people that I'm harmless. I've never had to do the opposite before.

"You only see what I want you to see," I say in a low, warning tone.

I take another deep breath, trying to quell the demons I feel writhing inside of me. I see Deb falter, leery of this unhinged version of her big brother.

"Everything that feels normal to me is wrong. Everything that excites me is twisted. Everything that fills me with joy fills others with horror. I'm a freak of fucking nature, taught to walk and talk like the rest of you—so please spare me the 'Woe is me! I'm broken!' sob fest. It's an insult to the real freaks out there."

I'm panting when I finish my rant. It's hard to tell what shocks Deb more—the meaning of my words or the vitriol with which I delivered them. She appears unable to speak for a few moments. She takes a couple of faint breaths, false starts, before she replies, but when she finally does, her voice is quiet and steady.

"I think Dad really fucked both of us up. I think that neither of us is a very good judge of our own character. I think that we both need to realize that we have good and bad in us, just like everybody else," she says matter-of-factly.

Whether she realizes it or not, Deb is constructing a neat little way out of this for both of us. She needs me to say, 'You're right. Harry really did a number on us. I guess neither of us is as bad as we've been led to believe. Thanks for the heart-to-heart, sis.' Or something like that.

But I'm beginning to see clearly now that just as killing is _my_ crutch, Deb's crutch is… _me_. I accept that I kill because I'm a monster. Deb accepts that she's a fuck up because I'm the normal one. My modus operandi directly contradicts hers. If I reveal my truth, then Deb's world unravels too. She'll never let me bow out of my familial responsibilities, because if I'm more screwed up than her, what hope does she have? She'll be drifting all alone without a tether.

And yet I can't continue to lead a double life just because it helps my sister cope. I killed Rita. Who's to say Deb won't be my next casualty? It's better in the long run to just get this over with now.

"You think that I'm exaggerating my dark side? You make it sound like I have a gambling addiction. Deb, I feel an urge to kill. All the time," I declare.

"That you've never acted on!" she cries out.

Silence.

So here it is. My decision has been made.

Deb has decided that it comes down to this. As long as I'm not a killer, she's okay with everything I've told her. But if I'm a killer…

"Ask me the question, Deb," I say calmly, although I can feel my heart begin to race.

Deb's eyes are wide. She seems frozen in place.

"Ask me," I demand.

Snapping out of her daze, Deb starts shaking her head.

"No," she says quietly, turning away.

It's hard to hear myself speak over the sound of the blood rushing through my veins, but I keep my voice even.

"I know you don't want to, but you have to, _Detective_," I say, emphasizing the last word purposefully.

"Dex, stop it," she pleads, looking like she wants nothing more than to bolt from the couch.

"Come on, Deb. You're a cop. Do your job," I push.

She shakes her head again, rolls her eyes.

"I'm not gonna ask you. It's ridiculous," she says, but her nervous fidgeting betrays her words.

This is it. This is the moment.

"The answer is yes. I've killed."

TO BE CONTINUED…

Every time you leave a review, an ostrich gets its feathers. Or something.


	3. Chapter 3

"The answer is yes. I've killed."

My statement hangs in the space between us. Deb's entire body tenses as if she's paralyzed by the weight of my words. I broke the code, but it had to be done, and it feels oddly…

Exhilarating.

My secret is out. It's over. The daily dance to balance the inner and outer me has come to a close.

"No you haven't," she says stiffly.

She's facing me, but it's like she's looking through me, not at me. Her eyes are wide and unfocused.

"I have," I reply simply.

Her eyes meet mine for a split second before she quickly turns away, squeezing her eyes shut. She lowers her head into her hands and I hear her mutter as she exhales—

"Jesus fucking Christ…"

I've done such a good job pretending to be normal that I know it might take a while for this to sink in. So, I wait. Deb is silent for a few more seconds. Then she whips her head back around to face me.

"No. This isn't possible," she says firmly.

I say nothing.

"It must've been an accident. You didn't mean to kill anybody. You couldn't! You're a good person, not a murderer!" she insists.

She's pleading with me now, begging me to agree with her. I think we've moved on from denial to the bargaining stage. She could forgive an accidental killing. That would be workable.

"Dexter, you're my brother," she says, her voice breaking.

It looks like we're back in denial. Her statement is supposed to act as a repudiation of mine. If A: Her brother could never be a killer, and B: I am her brother; then C: I'm not a killer. It's weak, but it's all she has left. I'm not taking her 'it was an accident' bait so really, what else can she do?

"Deb, I _am _your brother. But I'm also a killer," I say softly.

Her eyes fill with tears, and she starts shaking her head.

"No," she says again.

She barely gets the word out. I know that I have to push forward or we'll never get anywhere.

"Now you're supposed to ask for a name," I direct her.

"Stop," she bites out.

I don't stop.

"But that's a naïve question. It assumes the best. It assumes there's only been one."

She screws up her face in pain, and she looks for all the world like I've stabbed her in the gut. I know the look well.

"God, just stop," she yells, burying her face in her hands again.

I do stop. Momentarily. It's difficult for me to see Deb this way. It hurts. I look away, take a deep breath, and continue.

"Are you going to ask me how many?"

Deb drags her hands down her face and when she opens her eyes I'm surprised to see rage.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, Dexter! I can't do this again!" she shouts.

I'm stunned into silence. Of all the ways I thought Deb might respond, this didn't make the list.

"What happens next? Put a ring on my finger and then laugh at me for being too stupid to figure it out? _Fuck_!" she continues.

And it suddenly makes sense. Deb told me what Brian did to her: proposed, plied her with drugged champagne, and then confessed everything as the sedatives took hold. She told me he was calm, casual, and completely unemotional while he crushed her. Exactly the way I'm acting now. I can't imagine how it feels for Deb to see another person she loves betray in the exact same way.

I didn't even consider this. I knew that Deb would reject me when she found out my secret, but I always assumed that she would recover from the shock eventually. Now I'm not so sure. She looks devastated. Lost. I was so worried about Deb becoming a casualty of my double life that I didn't stop to think that the same might happen if I revealed myself.

What have I done?

"I'm sorry," I say.

I almost laugh at how inadequate my words sound in this situation. I look at my sister, but her face is still buried in her hands.

"Deb, I'm sorry," I repeat feebly.

"You can't be like him!" she shouts into her hands.

"I'm not," I assure her.

It's true. Brian's relationship with Deb was entirely fabricated. She was a means to an end for him. I may have used Rita as my cover, but with Deb the affection has always been real.

She lets out a laugh that's really more of a sob.

"Fuck you! You said it yourself—you're a monster!"

Her words hit me with such venom that I physically flinch. When Harry called me a monster, it hurt. But to hear Deb say it… I knew it would happen when she found out what I really am, but seeing this hate in her eyes is affecting me in ways I never anticipated. I feel a deep sense of loss. I've lost my sister. The only person left on earth who loves me, and she stopped. Just like that.

The ache in my chest grows, and I have no idea what to do next. I reach out to Deb in desperation, drawing her to me. She fights me, struggling to pull away, striking out blindly.

"No, don't touch me goddamn it!" she snarls.

"I'm not like him. I'm nothing like him, I swear," I murmur softly.

She shows surprising strength when she shoves me back onto the couch and stands.

"You're exactly like him. You're a fucking killer. You don't have feelings. You never cared about me."

I feel a pang from somewhere deep in my chest. If feels so real that I'm sure I've been physically struck. I'm never felt a pain like this before.

"That's not true," I say.

Brian was right. Deb could never accept my true nature. I am everything that she hates, and now she has to protect herself by disowning me entirely. I'm either a brother or a killer, but I can't possibly be both. So I'm no longer her brother.

"Isn't that what you've been trying to tell me all day? Don't back down now, Dex. Lay it on me," my sister seethes.

The pang in my chest has increased to a sharp throbbing pain. I want to look away, but I can't because the rage in her voice doesn't match the look in her eyes. A new malice is coming from her lips, but her expression is horribly familiar. My sister is staring at me with the same hollow eyes I dreaded seeing in Harrison.

She's empty.

A child who lost her family.

She's like me now. No one left on earth who loves her.

And I did it to her. I murdered her brother and replaced him with an unfeeling murderous monster.

Only, right now I don't feel like a monster. I feel all human, sitting here, watching my sister fall apart and knowing that I'm the one responsible for it. I feel…

I _feel_.

I'm not faking this. This is pure unadulterated feeling. And it's not rage or fear or panic—the kinds of emotions I'm experienced before. This is something new. Could this be… well, what does _that_ even feel like? Would I be able to recognize _it_ if I felt it?

"Deb, I…"

Then I stop, unable to complete my thought.

"What?" she snaps.

I'd give anything to have her look at me the way she used to. These hateful eyes burn my skin. Something is happening to my own eyes. Something heavy and thick is creeping from my lids. There's a tickle in the back of my throat that feels equal parts hot and tight.

What's happening to me?

All I know for sure is that I'll burst if I don't speak. The words spill over before I can reconsider them.

"I love you," I say.

The emptiness in Deb's eyes disappears instantly. Her brow crinkles and her face contorts into a mask of… disgust. She is absolutely revolted at the thought of this monster before her being her brother.

"No you don't," she replies firmly. "People who treat human life like you do can't _love_."

I've observed grieving family members hundreds of times. I can clinically recognize the signs of grief, and logically I understand why people experience those emotions. But I have never been capable of comprehending grief on a visceral level. I always assumed it was a blessing, and now I realize that I was right.

Because certainly what I feel now—the rejection of the only family I have—must be grief. I feel almost weightless, awash with feelings of desolation, drifting boundless in my own futility.

The heaviness spreading across my eyes pools at my lower lids. I blink and one single drop falls from my right eye.

I'm crying.

I should let her push me away. She needs to turn her brother in for murder; she shouldn't have to harbor a broken heart while she does it. Let her hate me to make this easier.

Normally this sort of logical argument would work on me, but with my new emotional awareness I seem to be impervious to reason.

"Well, I feel _something_, Deb! Damn it. I've never felt _this_ before. With anyone. It's the strongest thing I've ever felt. I'd do anything to undo the pain I've caused you. Hurting you like this… losing you as a sister… it feels like…"

I struggle to finish. What _does_ it feel like?

Yesterday I was Dexter Morgan: Serial killer, blood spatter analyst, husband, father, and brother. I'm not a husband anymore. Soon I'll be in jail. No more analyst or father. No more killing either. Without Deb, what am I? What's left? Nothing.

Dexter Morgan: Would-be killer. A body and mind occupied with nothing but depraved unfulfilled urges.

"It's like I'm losing the last piece of me that keeps me human. I don't want to lose that," I say pathetically.

It hits me like a sudden epiphany.

"I don't want to be a monster," I plead, turning my glassy eyes on her.

I see Deb's expression soften for a brief moment. I see a glimpse of the sister I know before her walls come up once more.

"I won't let you do this. You're just _fucking_ with me," she accuses.

Of course she doesn't believe me. After what she's been through, I really can't blame her.

"I am _not_ my brother," I assure her.

I'm unprepared for her furious response.

"You are _exactly_ like him," she retorts, but then reassesses her thoughts and goes one step further. "No, actually, you're worse. Brian Moser convinced me that he loved me for a few months. You've done it my entire life."

I shake my head, distraught by the turn our conversation has taken.

"You have to believe me, Deb. I've always cared about you," I implore her.

She eyes me coldly before making her reply.

"I don't have to believe anything you say."

It's hopeless. She's done with me. It's not as if I ever pictured this turning out differently. From the very beginning I imagined the moment when my sister would condemn me for my sins. Yet I feel betrayed.

Brian gave me a choice—embrace my true nature and earn the unconditional love of a brother or continue to wear the mask and keep a sister who would reject me when she discovered the truth. I chose Deb, and now the inevitable sequence of events has run its course. I knew this was coming, so what right do I have to feel so damn hurt? But I can't help it.

"I killed my _brother_ for you," I murmur, more to myself than to her.

This statement causes the first real break in her spiteful facade. Her eyes widen and she takes a step back from the couch.

"He committed suicide," she says uncertainly.

I look up at her from under hooded eyes.

"He didn't," I say darkly

My tone is enough to convince her.

"Why?" she whispers.

I look into her eyes, and see utter confusion reflected in them. I'm so happy to see any emotion other than hate or disgust that I almost smile.

"For you. To protect you."

Confusion is still evident on her face, but the tears are back. She stands awkwardly in front of me, apparently unsure how to proceed after this latest piece of information. Finally, she sits back down on the couch next to me. She leaves an entire cushion between us, but it's something.

"But he was your brother," she says hesitantly.

Slowly, giving her a chance to pull away, I place my hand over hers. She doesn't move. We both stare at our joined hands for a minute.

"You're my sister," I reply.

She lets out a tiny sound halfway between a sob and a sigh. We look at each other and for the first time since my confession I feel a glimmer of hope. I can tell that she still harbors some scrap of tenderness for me. She wants me to be her brother, but she doesn't know if it's possible.

"How many?" she whispers.

I know exactly what she means. She's asking me how many victims. She's hoping the number is two or three. She's upped her bargaining tolerance. She could accept two or three murders, maybe.

I look away and stare down at my shoes. I don't want to tell her. I don't want to lose her. The number I'm about to say will end any possibility of reconciliation. It's too horrible to speak aloud. I can't do it.

"Dexter. How many?" she pushes.

There is a sense of urgency in her tone. I feel my heart speed up again. I don't want to hurt her any more than I already have, but I also don't want to hurt myself. I don't want to see the absolute horror that my answer will provoke. But I have to tell her. I owe her honesty after so many years of deceit.

"Seventy-three."

I don't see horror or disgust. Just complete disbelief.

"Holy fuck."

She sounds like she might faint. Or burst into tears. Or possibly run screaming from the room.

"You should know they deserved it," I rush to add. "They were bad people. Harry taught me to use my compulsion for good. They all deserved it."

Well, except for that photographer. And Camilla.

"Holy fucking _fuck_."

She bends forward so that her head rests on her knees. It's similar to the position a person takes when they've just exited a rollercoaster and still feel queasy. I can't think of anything else to say that could possibly make this any better, so I fall silent. Deb doesn't move for what seems like five solid minutes, but is probably closer to thirty seconds.

Then, slowly, she sits up and turns to me. Her breathing is heavy and labored, her eyes wide with apprehension.

"Oh my god, you're the Bay Harbor Butcher," she says.

I don't try to deny it. Don't say a word.

"Are you?" she asks, a note of panic in her voice.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My hesitation speaks volumes.

"But Doakes…" she starts.

"Was a convenient scapegoat. Things just sort of… fell into place. I didn't kill him," I add hastily.

Deb frowns, ruminating over this latest piece of information.

"There were weapons in that cabin with him. And a body," she murmurs.

"I didn't kill him," I repeat, helpless to say much else in my defense.

"You were going to frame him?" she asks.

She seems more distressed by this than the fact that I'm the Butcher. I can't deny a thing, so I fall silent once again. Deb doesn't press the issue. Her mind is already elsewhere.

"All those bodies. You chopped them up? Dumped them?" she asks, swallowing hard.

I shrug meekly, as if to say, 'Yeah, my bad.' It's quite possibly the most inappropriate display of casual embarrassment in the history of mankind.

"Harry taught me how to dispose of evidence," I say by way of explanation.

"Oh god," Deb moans, lurching forward.

In a split second she's up and racing toward the bathroom. A moment later I hear the unmistakable sound of retching. I don't move. I just wait awkwardly on the couch for my sister to finish heaving her guts into the toilet.

A few minutes pass, giving me an opportunity to predict what's going to happen next. I come up with three likely possibilities.

Possibility Number One: Deb will emerge from the bathroom, retrieve her cuffs, and escort me immediately to the station.

Possibility Number Two: She'll call the station on her cell from the bathroom and wait for backup to arrive, either too upset or too afraid to face me again.

Possibility Number Three: She'll give me the chance to escape. Some lingering hint of a connection between us won't allow her to bring me in herself, and she'll tell me I have a one-hour head start before she calls this in.

When I hear the door squeak open, I brace myself for whatever comes next. I see her emerge around the corner of the living room. She looks exhausted.

"Are you a flight risk?" she asks.

I frown.

"No."

I'm not going to run away. I'm ready for this to come to an end.

"Good, because I'm too tired to deal with this now. It can wait till morning," she replies.

I pause, unsure that I heard her correctly. The most notorious and prolific serial killer in Miami history can 'wait till morning?'

"Okay," I say, unsure.

"I'm taking the bedroom," she informs me.

"Okay. Harrison's in there," I note.

She nods and turns toward the bedroom door. I watch her retreat in a state of bewilderment. Just before she disappears inside her room, I speak.

"Goodnight, Deb," I blurt out.

She pauses, her hand on doorknob.

"Goodnight, Dexter," she says.

~o~o~o~

I awaken to the smell of bacon.

She's cooking me my last meal as a free man. I can't help but be touched by her thoughtfulness.

"Morning," I say cautiously, as the kitchen comes into view.

Deb turns from the stove and nods in greeting.

"The baby's still asleep," she says offhandedly.

I return her nod and slip onto the stool at the bar. For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. Deb putters back and forth in the kitchen, flipping bacon, pushing the eggs around in the frying pan, retrieving the orange juice from the fridge. I'm almost fooled by her act, but I can tell she's not quite relaxed. There's a practiced air to her matter-of-fact routine. She's trying to give the impression of nonchalance, but we both know what's on her mind.

Still, when Deb sets a hot plate down in front of me and pulls up a chair as well, I allow myself to relax and enjoy what will be my last lazy morning breakfast with my sister. I've just taken a huge bite of eggs when she speaks.

"So you only kill murderers," she asks unceremoniously.

I choke on my eggs.

She waits patiently while I wash down my eggs with a gulp of orange juice.

"Um, yeah. Yes. Harry gave me a code to live by," I stammer.

She's studying me with the intensity of a detective on the hunt. I have trouble maintaining eye contact, but force myself not to look away.

"A _code_?" she prompts.

"Yes. The rules are very strict. I have to be sure, collect evidence, know beyond a shadow of a doubt. There has to be imminent threat of the person killing again. Then and only then do I take action," I explain, trying to shake off the surreal feeling I'm getting because this conversation is actually happening.

"Why not just hand them over to the police? To _me_," Deb asks pointedly.

I sigh and put down my fork.

"I don't target just any murderers, Deb. These are people who slip through the cracks, killers who get released on technicalities or elude our warrants. Usually they have another victim lined up and I know that bureaucratic red tape won't allow for their capture in time."

Deb pauses to take a bite of bacon, chewing it contemplatively.

"Why do you do it?" she asks, finally.

It takes me a moment to realize what she's asking.

"Why do I kill?"

She nods.

"Do you do it to save people?" she clarifies.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to say yes, to give her a reason to accept my nocturnal activities. But I'm through with lying to Deb.

"My victims are bad guys, but… that's only because Harry taught me to channel my compulsion in that direction. I kill because I like it. I need it."

I brave a glance in her direction only to find her staring down her eggs with a pained grimace on her face.

"Have you tried… _not_ doing it?" she asks tentatively after a moment.

"I, um…" I trail off, shaking my head, a bit lost for words.

Deb cuts me off.

"I mean… I'm sorry, is that like asking someone if they've tried _not_ being gay?" she asks apologetically.

I can't help it. I laugh, but quickly cover it by clearing my throat.

"No, it's a good question. Um… Harry always told me that it was just a part of me. He taught me to direct my demons toward a more noble purpose."

"Do you believe him?" she asks.

"For the longest time, I didn't fight it, didn't even try. The Code of Harry was absolute."

I smile at her. She just barely returns it.

"But a couple of years ago I went through a sort of… belated rebellion. I tried to break the habit," I continue.

I remember the moment that Lila convinced me I might get better. The hope I felt in that moment was indescribable. My future never seemed so promising.

"How'd that go?" Deb asks.

"It didn't take," I conclude.

I shoot her another smile, but this time I'm met with a look of absolute despair. It sobers me instantly.

"Damn it, Dex. I'm a fucking _cop_," she laments.

I nod.

"Yeah. Me too. Well, sort of. I have a laminate," I reply.

For the first time, Deb laughs. It's a sad laugh, like when people gather to tell fond stories at a friend's wake.

I know what's coming, so I figure I should tell Deb my plans. I went through it all last night in the hours before I drifted off into a fretful sleep.

"Look, just give me the morning to get my affairs in order. I already have the notarized letter to distribute my possessions, but I need to update it. Add the house. I put the money from the sale of my bio father's house toward a generous down payment so you should make a decent buck on the sale. I want the proceeds to go into a college fund for the kids. And I have to figure out Harrison. I know Astor and Cody will go to their grandparents, and, unless you have a huge objection, I'd like Harrison to go to them too. You're getting my TV, by the way. Oh, and my boat. Although that'll probably be seized as evidence."

"You douchebag," Deb interjects.

I freeze.

"Okay," I say warily.

She scowls at me.

"You think I'm gonna turn you in?"

I frown. My heart speeds up.

"You're not? What was with the 'I'm a fucking cop' comment?"

She throws her hands up in the air.

"Just because it really sucks!" she announces.

I pause again. Is she saying what I think she's saying?

"It does," I cautiously agree.

She shakes her head at me.

"You thought I was going to send you to jail. You dildo," she scoffs.

I almost smile.

"I'm a dildo _and_ a douchebag," I marvel.

Deb gives me the hint of a smirk.

"You're multitalented," she offers.

"That I am. I think you just came up with a very lucrative invention."

"Probably already exists," she replies.

"Probably. We'll have to ask Masuka," I suggest.

We share a smile. It's the oddest moment I've ever experienced, and I've experienced some odd ones. Is it really possible that my sister has _accepted_ me for who I really am? That she's willing to just go on as brother and sister despite my inhumanity?

Maybe she's just afraid of being all alone. Maybe she feels like she has to protect me because our dad made me this way. Maybe she doesn't realize the true danger involved in this arrangement.

"Deb, I can't ask you to do this," I say abruptly.

Deb doesn't seem the least bit surprised by my statement.

"Good thing you didn't ask then," she retorts.

Before I can make heads or tails of this, she's standing and bringing her plate over to the sink. I frown. I can't possibly allow Deb to get involved in my sordid world.

"I'm not going to stop."

She freezes in the middle of scraping her plate clean.

"It's not an addiction, Deb. It's as much a part of me as my blood type. I can't change it. I am a killer."

She puts her plate down and turns back towards me.

"I know," she says.

"It's inevitable that I'll get caught eventually."

She shakes her head.

"Nothing's inevitable."

I sigh.

"That's entirely untrue. A lot of things are inevitable," I counter.

Deb groans in irritation.

"God, can you turn off the scientist for one second, _Professor_?"

"It will ruin your career," I press.

Her jaw is set in determination before she replies.

"Family's more important," she says firmly.

Never, not once, did I ever think that Deb would say those words when faced with my truth. Family is more important than my perversion? I can't help the skepticism that invades my mind at those words. She just hasn't processed it yet. It'll dawn on her that she's a cop and I'm a killer and I'll be in a cell by the end of the day. Right?

"How are you handling all this?" I ask.

"What? Finding out my brother's a serial killer?" she quips.

I raise my eyebrows.

"Uh, yeah."

She sighs.

"Not great."

Well, at least she's not pretending everything's fine.

"But I don't believe you when you say that you're a monster. First of all, you only kill killers. You're actually saving more lives than you take," she continues.

I stand and walk over to the sink. She continues rinsing dishes, pretending I'm not there, until I place a gentle hand on her forearm to stop her.

"Deb, you know I don't kill to help people," I remind her.

"We all have our annoying habits," she replies weakly.

"Deb."

I don't say any more; just give her a pointed glare.

"I know!" she bursts out. "It's just hard to accept. I'm working through it. But… okay, so it's a part of you, but so is the part of you that loves your kids, and that cares deeply about giving them a good life. And you're the best brother, and that wasn't all an act because you saved my life. You chose me over your brother. And you didn't have to."

"I have evil inside of me, Deb," I snarl, frustrated by her willful ignorance.

"And I still love you."

Her simple declaration stops me cold. She turns off the faucet and grabs a towel to dry her hands, leaving me standing speechless at the sink.

I twist around to look at her. She really does love me. How is that even possible? I never planned for this contingency. I plan for everything.

Brian was wrong. Harry was wrong. Deb knows me and she still loves me. This changes everything. I'm not sure how yet, but I know that my entire life is going to be different from this point forward.

Deb tosses the towel down on the counter and comes back to the sink. She places her hands on my shoulders, forcing me to meet her eyes.

"You can do this. You can put your life back together even though Rita's gone," she urges.

The mention of Rita brings me crashing back to earth.

"Deb—"

She squeezes my shoulders, stopping me.

"We can do it together. I understand that balancing everything would be impossible, but I'm here. You can be a father to these kids."

I've never been a father to these kids. Not really. They were pawns in my twisted game. And pawns get sacrificed. Just like their mother.

"I was using them as a cover. They were just a way to keep killing. I was never a good father; I just made it look good," I reveal, the truth of my words hurting as it comes out.

Deb roughly releases my shoulders and places her hands on her hips.

"Stop acting like you are incapable of providing a loving home," she orders. "You did it for me when I couldn't live alone."

She doesn't know the truth about my relationship with Arthur Mitchell. She has no idea what she's talking about.

"Haven't I already done enough to these kids? First I get Paul killed, then Rita. I orphaned them," I growl.

She doesn't ask what I did to Paul. She doesn't ask how I caused Rita's death. She just asks one simple question.

"Are you the Trinity Killer?"

I know she doesn't actually believe I'm Trinity; she's just making a point. A misguided point.

"No," I say tersely.

"Then shut up. And do you really think the kids would've been better off with _Paul_ in the picture?" she asks incredulously. "Last you told me he was trying to take the kids away from Rita."

She just doesn't get it. I could have stopped Trinity, but my dark passenger wouldn't let me.

"I could've killed him," I mutter.

"Paul?" Deb asks, confused.

I shake my head irritably.

"Trinity. I had more than one chance. I upset him. He was trying to ruin my life because I ruined his."

Deb takes a step back. She's starting realize that she's missing some very important pieces of this puzzle, but I see her struggle not to ask me for details. Finally, she settles for what she deems the only question that matters.

"Did you kill _his_ wife?"

I'm repulsed by the very notion.

"No," I reply immediately. "But I messed up. And Rita's dead because of me."

Deb doesn't ask for any more explanation.

"Nothing you do or say is going to bring her back, and you're not the one who killed her. So you need to stop blaming yourself and let her go."

Let her go. Forgive myself.

Impossible.

"You need to do right by her now. That's how you honor her memory. When you married Rita, you agreed to share the responsibility for her kids. And I know you think the best way to do that is to get them away from you, but that's _bullshit_," Deb continues.

I can't be a monster and a father. I couldn't protect my wife. I can't put the kids in danger.

"You're a good person. I need a brother. Your kids need a father," she presses.

I'm a brother. Deb still wants me in her life. Is it even possible that this could work? Do I dare take that chance?

I realize that I don't have to live in my head anymore. I can actually speak my fears aloud. Deb knows. She'll listen.

"I'm so scared of what I might do to them. What I might've already done to them," I say quietly.

Deb brings her arms around me. I feel her head come to rest on my shoulder, her hands on my back. I lean into her for support.

"You are needed and loved, Dexter. You are not a monster."

"I am," I say without hesitation.

"You are _not_. And I'm going to keep reminding you of that every day until you start believing it you big 'tard."

She pulls away to look at me. She wouldn't say that if she saw me in action, if she saw me cutting through flesh and bone, bagging bloody body parts without an ounce of remorse. She'd be like Doakes. Like Harry. She'd recoil in horror. _Stay away from me_.

"You don't know—"

"I know _exactly_ what you do," she interrupts.

"I saw the bodies, Dex. I know how many, I know why, and I know how. And I'm telling you that you are _not_ a monster. You're just fucked up. Maybe more than the average person, but you're fucked up. Like the rest of us. Welcome to the motherfucking human race," she declares, arms spread wide in typical dramatic Deb fashion.

"Normal people aren't murderers," I argue.

"Yeah? Well, normal murderers aren't good people. I guess you defy the odds. Stop trying to catalogue yourself as good or evil. Let's just face facts: the world is a better place with you in it. Don't look any further than that."

She's standing in front of me, arms crossed, daring me to defy her. I say nothing for a moment. I simply reflect on my situation. My sister knows. And she still loves me. She believes that I can have a family. She _is_ my family. This is actually happening.

"Astor and Cody are coming back today," I say absently.

I feel her hand on my arm again.

"We'll tell them about Rita together," she reassures me.

I don't know if I can do this. This is strange new territory.

Dexter Morgan: beloved serial killer.

It seems like I'm going backwards and forwards at the same time. I'm making the same mistakes, but at the same time I'm striking out on an entirely new path. I have no idea how things will turn out for me, or for Deb, or for my kids.

"I can't do this alone."

"You don't have to," she tells me.

I look into her eyes and, for now, I believe her.

~o~o~o~

The End

~o~o~o~

Thank you for reading. Please review!


End file.
